Soon
by AnnaBurton5.5apple26
Summary: Post-Reichenbach AU. Sherlock comes home wounded. Mycroft has to tell John. Not yet established Johnlock. Platonic Mary. Rated M for violence, language, and sex. Maybe.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: This is my first fanfiction, and I'm incredibly nervous. Not Brit-picked. No beta. Just me._

 **Chapter One**

The gritty sound of rubber soles on wet asphalt sounded among an otherwise quiet night in Rome. It was a comfortable rhythm for Sherlock. His version of normal. The man a few meters ahead of him had no feasible means of escape, but that damn fight-or-flight response kept him moving forward instead of admitting defeat. The man, Sherlock's last tally mark on a long list of Moriarty's associates, turned sharply, catching Sherlock momentarily off-guard. Had he realized how pointless his fleeing was? He reached for his belt, and pulled out a hideously dramatic looking knife. It had a black grip with a thin, curved blade. No then, not giving up, just changing tactics. He was not a particularly skilled man, and the knife seemed to be better fit for a production of _The Pirates of Penzance_ than shanking someone in an alleyway, so Sherlock was able to pull out his own knife without much effort. Sherlock's job was not to kill his opponent, just stall him long enough for Mycroft's men to arrive. The man in front of him was called Niska, an experienced assassin from Moscow. However, knives were not his forte; he dealt primarily with precision firearms. Once Mycroft's men arrived, they would take Niska away and do what they do when they need information. He wasn't a higher up, but he contracted with Moriarty on over two dozen occasions, so he couldn't exactly walk away.

The two began an elaborate sort of dance. Sherlock really wasn't supposed to kill him, but the stupid ape was making it exceedingly difficult not to. Sherlock grabbed the wrist of his knife-wielding hand and twisted, giving Niska the opportunity to punch him with his other hand. Square in the face. Disoriented, Sherlock stumbled backwards, still holding his knife at the ready. Niska grabbed his wrist and shoved his forearm against Sherlock's windpipe. Sherlock struggled for breath, pulling at Niska's massive bicep, but Sherlock was tired. Not just "I've been running for an obscenely long time, and I could use a kip" tired, but bone-weary, "I have been running for months on end, fighting for months on end, hurting for months on end" tired. The pain he was experiencing now was nothing compared to some of the horrors of the last few months, but he still needed air. Niska released his hold on Sherlock's esophagus, but forced his oxygen-starved opponent on to the ground instead. He forced his arm into an unnatural angle until something gave, and Sherlock screamed in the back of his throat.

"You don't think I know what is happening," Niska grunted with a heavy accent, still leaning on Sherlock's now crooked arm. "I know I'm done. I've been done since Moriarty blew his brains out. Your reinforcements will catch up with me, but they'll have your corpse to clean up too." Niska began furiously kicking at his abdomen. It was stupid of Sherlock to believe that any worker of Moriarty's could be as dull as Niska initially seemed. The truth is, he had wanted it to be easy, and his urgency to go home had clouded his judgement. How funny, his urgency to get home would prevent him from getting home at all. Niska, perhaps wanting to take the opportunity to use a dramatic knife for a dramatic death, thrust the blade abruptly into Sherlock's left shoulder. Guttural noises flew from his mouth as the knife was retracted. Dark, hot blood spilled over his body, forming pathetic puddle on the grimy floor below him. His head started to spin, and he was vaguely aware of a scuffle occurring a few feet away. It didn't matter now, anyway. The job was done. He was done.


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note: Thank you to those who favorited and followed, I squealed when I opened my computer! Feel free to review, it would probably make my day. Also, I forgot to say it last time, but I don't own anything._

 **Chapter Two**

John rubbed his eyes for what felt like the thousandth time that morning. The harsh light of his computer screen glared at him in the dim light of his office. In the months since… the incident… John hadn't slept one night through. The nightmares of Afghanistan, which had disappeared during his time with Sherlock, were now replaced with nightmares of The Fall. Ella was useless. The blog was useless. He was useless. John wasn't the sort of man to consider suicide as a viable option, but sometimes, on a really bad day, it would creep into his subconscious. At least he had this job. It wasn't particularly interesting or even enjoyable, but it kept him moving. Without it, he would allow himself to stagnate. "Knock, knock," a sweet, clear voice rang out from behind the heavy, wooden door. Mary, one of his coworkers, poked her head into his office. "Feel like joining me for lunch?" Mary asked him this question every day, without fail. His first thought was always that she pitied him for what had happened, but she always said it with ease and sincerity. She was pretty, with radiant, blonde hair and an open face, but it wasn't like that between John and her. It wasn't like that between John and anybody. Mary was just a kind soul who saw a person where John saw a shell. Best of all, talking to her didn't mean talking about him. It wasn't like it was with Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, where every look and every word was shadowed by a Belstaff.

"Yeah, actually, I think I will," John replied, tired of sitting around.

"Oo! Goodie! Something fun, yeah? I am sick and tired of peanut butter sandwiches!"

"Uh, sure, yeah. Whatever you think." John wasn't sure he could pick out a place for lunch even if he tried. He had been out of the loop for too long. It was coming up on two years now.

"Well, I know just the place!" Mary's cheer alone made John smile. He slid on his jacket and held the door for her on their way out. They walked in companionable silence for a few minutes before Mary turned into a small bakery. It smelled warm, like cinnamon and chocolate. "Bad for the waistline, but worth it. I promise." John flashed a quick grin at the young woman behind the counter and focused his attention on the delicacies behind the glass. "What do you think? I usually get the raspberry scone, but I'm feeling like a chocolate croissant today."

"Do they have jams?"

"A dozen, at least," Mary answered, gesturing towards the back counter. Sure enough, it was lined with colorfully labeled jars. "I'll have two chocolate croissants," she said to the woman. "One for the road," she explained with a wink.

"And you?" the woman (Abby, according to her nametag) asked John.

"Can I have a blueberry scone with jam?" John asked with more uncertainty than he should have felt while ordering a pastry.

"Absolutely! What kind of jam?"

"Uh, surprise me?"

"Sure thing!"

After grabbing their respective treats, John and Mary sat down at a small table just outside the bakery. "Thanks for coming with me. That office gets so stuffy sometimes," Mary mumbled through a mouthful of chocolate pastry.

"Yeah, though I suppose trading a stuffy office for the city's pollution isn't much of an improvement," John responded absentmindedly, staring out at the people of London going about their daily lives. They all seemed so simple at a distance. A man who looked dreadfully uncomfortable in a suit and tie. A woman spiked purple hair and a white corset. Every kind of person, each one just as strange and complex as the one next to them.

"I suppose you're right, but you know what they say: a change is as good as a rest."

"I always thought that was rubbish."

"Oh it is, but it's a comforting cliche." Mary remarked with her usual insight. John smiled down at the wrought iron table and popped another bit of scone into his mouth. "So," she said with a bit of a pause, "how are you?"

"Mary, please don't. We've been having such a nice time. Don't."

"John, I only ask because I know no one else is."

"You're right. Because I don't want anyone to ask. I stopped seeing Ella because I was sick of her asking."

"You stopped seeing Ella?" Mary asked, her eyebrows pinching together in concern.

"Yeah, yeah I did. Thanks for lunch, Mary. It was… Well, it was really nice." John stood up and started walking. Mary followed without missing a beat. "You don't have to walk with me."

"Well, seen as we are headed to the same place, it seems rather silly not to."

"Yeah. Yeah, you're right," John muttered to himself. About a minute passed when a sleek, black sedan pulled up next to them. _No. No, no, no, no. Not happening. This is not happening._ I barrage of memories overtook John as the car slowed to a halt. John hadn't seen Mycroft since the funeral. John was rooted to the cement, and Mary looked between him and the car with concern. The window rolled down to reveal the elder Holmes brother, looking as posh as ever even with the bags under his eyes.

"Hello again, John. It's been awhile."

"Don't you dare. Don't you fucking dare." Mary physically flinched when John cursed with surprising venom. "You're not allowed to invade my life anymore."

"Mary Morstan is it? I don't believe I've had the pleasure," Mycroft greeted, ignoring John completely.

"Leave her alone," John commanded. "What do you want?"

"I _need_ you to come with me."

John paused. Mycroft had given him space. He hadn't called or dropped by. He hadn't tried anything. _Why would he come to me now?_ There was even a modicum of strain in Mycroft's voice. "Mary… Can you cover for me at work?" Mary gaped at him but nodded in assurance. John glanced at her anxious expression. "I'm not in any danger. I promise. Thanks for lunch."

"Stay safe," Mary urged with a tight smile as John slid into the sedan.


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Note: Thank you for all the support :) I don't own a thing_

 **Chapter 3**

John was pressed into the corner of the vehicle with his arms crossed, fuming. They had been driving for an obscenely long time in perfect silence. John was determined not to be the first to speak, and Mycroft wouldn't look at him directly let alone start chatting with him. The platinum skyscrapers turned to one-story shops and houses, which turned to green hills and trees.

John had actually managed to doze off as they were passing through an apple tree orchard, and he slept slumped against the window. _He's going to leave smudges_ , Mycroft thought, _not that it matters_. Mycroft cringed internally as they started up a long gravel drive. It was time to talk to John. "John," Mycroft stated clearly. He would not deign to whisper, and it certainly wouldn't ease the blow of what came next if he did. "John we need to talk before we go inside."

"Well," John grumbled sleepily, "seen as I've been kidnapped, I don't have much of a choice do I?"

"I wouldn't do something like this unless it was important, but you already know that, so can you stop being childish for one moment? Please." It wasn't like John had much of choice. Mycroft was just being nice, pretending that John had more say than he actually did. Wait. Mycroft was being nice. Alarm bells sounded in John's ear. There was no reason for Mycroft to be nice; Mycroft did polite, but he didn't do _nice_.

"Mycroft… What is it?" John asked, fear creeping into his voice. Mycroft took a deep breath, and John's stomach twisted into knots. The worst had already happened. Whatever it was, he could handle it.

"John… Sherlock is alive."

Time stopped. The words were there, floating in the air, but they weren't making it passed John's ears. He couldn't comprehend their meaning. Then his breathing started to accelerate, his subconscious catching on before the thought was fully realized. Why would Mycroft play such a cruel trick on him? Why would he bring him all the way out here just to lie to his face? _Mycroft must be confused_ , John reasoned to himself, _the poor man is just in denial about what happened that day_.

"No, Mycroft. No he's not. I saw. I saw him fall. I saw him on the pavement. I'm sorry, Mycroft, but he's not," John panted. Mycroft let the silence stretch for a moment, considering his options and eventually deciding that the best way to get through to John was to show him.

"John, I think it's time to go inside," Mycroft said softly. John looked at the property for the first time. The Holmes' Estate in all its glory. It was beautiful, in a gothic sort of way. _Just like Sherlock,_ John mused. It was a cobblestone mansion with thick green lawns, giant oak trees, and a walkway that stretched around the side of the house. It was a Jane Austen house, a Downton Abbey house. Only a home so dramatic would be deserving of such a family.

They walked up the drive to a stained glass door. It was like walking through a dream as they passed through the sunlit foyer, up a carpeted staircase, and down a richly colored hall. Mycroft paused before the ancient, dark wood of what must have been a bedroom door. "Brace yourself," Mycroft warned. John did, and then he opened the door.

It was Sherlock. Of course, it was Sherlock. Sherlock was unconscious and obviously injured, hooked up to an IV and a heart monitor, but it was still Sherlock. In his whole life, John had never wanted to be angry so badly, but seeing Sherlock like this… Bruised, broken, and bandaged… It took priority over anything else.

"What happened?" John asked, his voice low.

"When he jumped-"

"No, not then, now," John clarified. Mycroft looked at him, baffled.

"I thought you would be angrier. I thought you would demand answers."

"Answers can wait. Believe me, when I finally get angry about this, I'm going to put hellfire to shame, but right now I am his doctor. Fill. Me. In." Mycroft recognized John's determination, it was burning in his eyes, and was grateful.

"He was on the last of a series of missions, he was attempting to detain a known assassin, and he was ferociously assaulted. Injuries included a separated right shoulder, bruised ribs, internal bleeding in the abdomen, a stab wound to the left shoulder, and overall blood loss. The right shoulder, the internal bleeding, and the left shoulder all required emergency surgery. He has received multiple blood transfusions, and he is now sedated."

"When?"

"Last night in Rome."

"When can he be expected to wake up?"

"Some time tonight. I have had a room made up for you across the hall, but a bed can be moved into the room if you like. I've sent for your things, as well."

John took a long, deep breath. "I think we'll wait and see what Sherlock thinks. Can we, you know, go sit? I need tea." Mycroft nodded his assent, and they made their way back to the ground floor. Mycroft led John to a dim, old study. There were bookshelves completely lining one wall, an antique desk with a wooden desk chair, and four leather chairs forming a half-circle around a lit fireplace. Mycroft excused himself to make the tea, and John just stared at the books on the shelves without really processing any of the titles. There were old-fashioned light fixtures hanging from the ceiling, but none of them were currently in use. Black-out curtains covered the large windows behind the desk. The light of the fire made the shadows dance rhythmically. When Mycroft returned, they chose their seats by the fire and sipped their tea. "Why now?" John broke the silence.

"Pardon me?"

"It's been almost two years. Why now?" John asked pleadingly, closing his eyes. Memories flashed behind his eyelids: the Fall, the funeral, moving out of Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson's weepy phone calls that eventually went unanswered, failed blind dates set up by well-meaning coworkers, all the bloody nightmares.

"The job is done. He had planned on returning to Baker Street, but given his condition, I thought it would be prudent to bring you here."

"What was the job?" John wondered what could possibly be so important that Sherlock would put him through this.

"I think it's better if he is the one to explain that to you." Mycroft replied. John felt the conversation coming to a close.

"One more question: why here?"

"The world still believes my brother to be dead. Bringing him to a hospital would surely be the quickest way to expose him. As upset as you may be, I am sure it would have been worse to see it played out on the telly." Mycroft was right, as always.

"So what do I do now?" John asked, honestly not knowing what to do to himself.

"Wait, I suppose." But John was never good at waiting, not when it came to Sherlock.

"Can I look around?" John figured he might as well take advantage of being here, even under such absurd circumstances.

"Be my guest. Just don't get lost. I think it would be embarrassing for everyone if I had to send out a search team. Dinner will be at six, if you feel so inclined."

John chortled. "I'll do my best." He put his mug down on one of the end tables and slipped out of the study. If he didn't know better, he would think that this was just one long dream, the manifestation of a hope he had never said out loud except for once at Sherlock's grave. He strolled hesitantly through the home. He felt very much like an intruder; he was here without Sherlock's permission after all. _Fuck his permission,_ John thought. _For the rest of time, he has no right to be upset with me. This will always take the motherfucking cake._

On the ground floor there was a kitchen, a dining room, a living room, the study he had just vacated, a library, and a sitting room. Most of the rooms looked unused, and it occurred to John that he hadn't seen anyone. No family members, no servants. _They had to have servants in a house this size, didn't they?_ The great home hadn't been used for some time then. John understood why, of course. He couldn't live in such an expansive home on a regular basis either. John had been perfectly happy in his hectic mess of a flat on Baker Street.

Standing in the middle of the library, John realized just how tired he was. This was all too much, and he knew he hadn't even begun to process it in its entirety. Now was the calm before the storm, the denial before the anger. Best to take advantage of it.

John crept slowly back upstairs and stood between Sherlock's room and his. He slowly pushed open the door and peered through, just to make sure Sherlock was there, just to make sure it was all real. He's so still, John pondered, I've never seen him so still. Sherlock was a bundle of energy. Even when he was in his mind palace you could see the sheer ferocity of his personality coming off of him in waves. His breaths were even, albeit shallower than they should have been due to the bruised ribs. Reassured that Sherlock was, in fact, still alive, John crossed the hall into his own bedroom.

It was a beautiful room, to be sure. The walls were a soft yellow, and a mahogany bed with deep blue bedding stood against the left wall. The room also had a chest of drawers to the right of the bed, a small desk and chair opposite the bed between the doors to the bathroom and the closet, and a bedside table to the left of the bed, all matching mahogany. There was an alluring reading chair by the bay window that John was sure he'd use if he was here long enough. John kicked off his shoes and climbed into bed. He was asleep in seconds.


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's Note: I'm really sorry about the delay, guys. Life… But if you're still out there, and I really hope you are, I haven't given up. Hopefully, the longer than usual chapter makes up for it, at least a little bit. I don't own a thing (no matter how badly I wish I did)._

 **Chapter 4**

 _He was running. Someone was laughing in his ear, high and manic. Breath exhaled hotly on the back of his neck. He couldn't move his limbs fast enough. It was always right behind him. He was running through a thunderstorm, and the lightning was chasing him. The vibration of every thunderbolt pounded through his chest as he ran. Running through a field, up a mountain, into a jungle. He could run around the world and it wouldn't matter. Something stopped him dead. It knocked the wind out of him. He was caught in a spider web. The spider web wrapped around his chest and he couldn't breathe. It kept spinning, but he couldn't see the spider. The lightning struck his shoulder and he cried out. He could smell his own skin smoking, and it made him gag. It struck the other shoulder and seemed to linger, burning itself to the very bone before retracting. Every tremble racked his body with pain. The web detached itself from its hold and he fell. Off a cliff, down the rabbit hole, he couldn't see but he could feel the wind beating against his ravaged body. He couldn't breathe but he could scream. "John!" He kept falling. "John!" The storm was still chasing him._

"John!" Sherlock woke with a jolt, pain radiating through his body, and then there he was. John's face hovered above his own with unconcealed concern, just like before. If he didn't know any better, he would've thought the last two years were some kind of deranged fever dream. He was really in 221B. John was drinking tea and came in to check on him as he does. He would methodically ruin the milk while waiting for a case.

"Sherlock," John whispered coarsely, fervently. John's clothes were wrinkled, his hair was heavily tousled on one side, and his face was imprinted with the folds of blanket. Even a cognitively-impaired Sherlock could tell that John had just woken up. They were both waiting, eyes locked, but for what neither could say. If only Sherlock had full range of motion, he could've reached out and reassured himself that this was real. Then it him them both like a shock.

 _This was the first time they had been together, both aware, since the fall._ So much had happened. It didn't feel like there was enough breath in Sherlock's body to speak it all, not that he particularly wanted to. John was a bomb, surely, bound to blow at any time, but the words were crowding the back of his throat. It felt so wrong to have all this space between them, all these secrets, all this time.

John cleared his throat. "First things first, I'm going to sit you up and get you some fluids, okay?"

"You're not mad," Sherlock remarked after a few moments, his baritone coming out like it was assaulted with sandpaper. John bent over to fiddle with the controls on the ridiculously posh hospital bed, and Sherlock slowly but surely rose so that he was sitting up more than he was lying down.

"Would you rather I be mad?" John asked with far more amusement in his voice than appropriate given the circumstances. At the moment, he was just happy to see Sherlock conscious and talking.

"Well, no, but I'd rather get it over with."

"That's too bad. I'll get mad eventually Sherlock, but it's sort of difficult to get mad at a man who doesn't have the use of either of his arms. How about you sit tight while I tell Mycroft you're awake and grab a glass of water?"

Sherlock looked down at his arms, bandaged and bound securely to his chest, "I don't exactly have a choice." John huffed a laugh and moved hesitantly towards the door. "Well go on then. I'm dying of dehydration." John smiled wistfully, shutting the door behind him.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock could hear John shout down the hall. _That was anticlimactic,_ he thought. With John's temper, Sherlock had expected his homecoming to be more volatile. A bubble of anxiety expanded in his stomach. He didn't get to plan his return the way he wanted. He wasn't supposed to get injured. He was sloppy. John was going to see that Sherlock was damaged and realize he wasn't worth the trouble. He wanted John to come back faster. What was wrong with him? This neediness was new and disgusting. He wanted to get rid of it as soon as possible.

The door opened once more, John and Mycroft making there way into the room. "Ah, look who decided to grace us with his presence," Mycroft said indifferently.

"He was injured and unconscious, Mycroft. It's not like he was locked in his room, pouting over an experiment," John came to his rescue like always. He made his way to Sherlock's bedside, a glass of water with a ridiculous pink straw in hand. He wasn't about to refuse the water, so he took the straw between his lips with as much dignity as he could muster. The petulant look on his face was priceless.

"Ah yes, injured. Eagerness made you reckless brother mine. But that brings me to my next topic. John, I assume you will perform whatever duties necessary regarding my brother's health? I've had staff here for his immediate needs, but if you're staying then their services will no longer be required."

"Oh, yeah, of course. I mean, as long as Sherlock's okay with it." John looked at Sherlock with an odd insecurity, as though he were the one who forced his best friend to mourn his death.

"Erm, yes, fine, it's all fine," Sherlock replied without thinking. Then it sunk in. John was used to the medical stuff. John had helped Sherlock with the occasional stitch. They had always been closer than close. _But this was different_

"Then I will leave you to it. John, remember what I said about sleeping arrangements." Mycroft strolled out the door. John looked back at Sherlock. He was more unkempt than he had ever seen him. Sherlock usually had impeccable hygiene, but now he was unshaven and, quite frankly, dirty. He had so many questions, but it seemed cruel to ask them all while Sherlock was such a mess.

"Okay, I guess we should get you cleaned up."

"What did Mycroft mean about the sleeping arrangements?" Sherlock knew what Mycroft meant. He hadn't been _that_ damaged. He just wanted to push the conversation forward, otherwise John would put it off until the last possible moment.

"Oh nothing. He mentioned that we could have a bed moved in here. I suppose it's in order to make the whole medical care situation easier."

"Of course we'll move a bed in here. I can't be yelling across the hall every time I need you. I can't exactly text either."

"You're right. I'll go tell Mycroft after you no longer look like a homeless man."

"It was necessary," Sherlock said with a little sniff.

"Right, well we will talk about why it was necessary later." John held the glass up again, and Sherlock drank. Sherlock blushed too, but neither of them mentioned it. _It must be so hard for him,_ John thought, _to be dependent on someone._ He set the glass down on a nearby table, not unlike one from a hospital, and moved to lay Sherlock back down. Sherlock closed his eyes, waiting for the bed to flatten out. "Dizzy?" John asked. He put his hand gently on the side of Sherlock's face, and Sherlock's eyes popped back open. John's fingertips were startlingly warm, and the slight pressure was enough to flood the forefront of his mind. "Are you feeling faint, Sherlock?"

"No, I'm fine. Just thinking," answered noncommittally.

"Okay, genius," John said affectionately, "but I'm going to need your cooperation for this next bit." John pulled the blanket from Sherlock's abdomen to the foot of the bed. His shoulders were bandaged, the left more than the right, and resting in a double sling. His ribs were covered in blossoming bruises. He was in his boxers, which John was grateful for. He wasn't embarrassed by nudity, but this was Sherlock. It was different. "The bathroom?"

"Closest to the window."

"Thanks." John took a moment to evaluate the room. It was almost the same as the one he had been sleeping in, but with a different color scheme. His walls were maroon, his furniture was white, and his bedding was a flowery brown pattern. It was all very Sherlock. He made his way to the bathroom and was jarred by the impeccable whiteness. John rummaged around for what he was going to need: razor, shaving cream, towels, and washcloths. He wondered what the nursing crew might've left behind for him. "I need to run downstairs for a tick, but I'll be right back."

"Better hurry, I might fall off another building," Sherlock joked nervously. John looked back at him, caught of guard, and shuffled downstairs. He ran into Mycroft in the kitchen, which Sherlock would've had a good laugh over.

"Mycroft, just the man I needed to see," John said, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"Ah, Doctor Watson."

"Listen, I'm going to bunk with Sherlock at least for now." John couldn't quite meet Mycroft's eyes, but he wasn't sure why. It seemed a part of him didn't want to appear so attached to Sherlock. Even though Mycroft was undoubtedly aware of how awful the last two years were for him, he wanted to pretend that Sherlock wasn't as central to his life as he really was.

"I thought as much. You'll find everything you need already in your bedroom. Anything else?"

"Yeah actually, do you have any medical supplies?"

"Yes, an entire closet full in fact," Mycroft smirked. He remembered how their mother's first aid kit grew alongside the severity of Sherlock's experiments until eventually they acquired a small arsenal. "Sherlock became quite unpredictable at a young age."

"Never thought I'd be grateful for the moron's tendency to blow things up," John remarked, struck by the image of a chubby-cheeked, curly-haired boy contemplating the various pros and cons of different explosives. Mycroft hummed in agreement and led the way to said closet. It was in the hallway just off of the living room, and it was massive. When John heard "closet" he supposed he should've realized "walk-in" was implied. He immediately found what he needed: baby shampoo and an inflatable shampoo basin. Sherlock would obviously need more than just a bath, but this would do for now. "Well, that was convenient."

"Between our old non perishables and the new supplies, we're well equipped."

"Right, well, thanks for the help," John smiled politely, heading to the kitchen for the remaining necessities.

"Any time, John." It made John uncomfortable, Mycroft being so helpful. It occurred to him that Mycroft was placing an awful lot of trust in him. He could always smother Sherlock with a pillow. Part of him would like to smother Sherlock with a pillow. Damn it, he would never smother Sherlock with a pillow. _And Mycroft knows it,_ John thought, mildly annoyed.

John grabbed a few bowls and a pitcher from the kitchen and clambered up the stairs with full arms. He cracked the door to Sherlock's bedroom door a few inches and peered in. Sherlock was softly snoring, and John was relieved. It'd be a lot easier to perform a bed bath on his best friend if he was unconscious. He went to the bathroom and set out all his supplies. He filled two large bowls with warm water from the tap. He took those, the towels, the washcloths, and the soap to the medical table beside Sherlock's bed. He slid the towels as far underneath Sherlock on both sides as he could without waking him or causing discomfort. He took the largest towel and placed it over Sherlock's body then carefully slid his boxers off from underneath the towel. He'd hate for Sherlock to feel that his privacy was violated in any way, but he truly needed to bathe. From his neck to his bellybutton was actually clean. The medical personnel had obviously cleaned it up in order to operate on that part of the body. There wasn't time to bathe him fully, not with the level of his injuries. John started on Sherlock's left side. He moistened two washcloths, and soaped one of them. He scrubbed and rinsed Sherlock's skin gently in sections with alternating cloths, changing them out when they got too dirty. He moved downwards, all the way to his toes, and switched sides. He took a deep breath and cleaned his genitals as quickly as possible, moving around the catheter. Again, he wasn't embarrassed. He just didn't want to violate Sherlock's boundaries. He also didn't want to be a shoddy doctor to his friend and risk an infection. It's not like John was paying attention anyway. If John started to pay attention, if he started to notice all the new scars and old injuries, then he wouldn't be able to finish. John carefully removed the now damp towels from Sherlock's sides, and dumped all the used supplies in the bathroom. He would clean it up later. Now he really needed Sherlock's cooperation.

"Sherlock," John whispered. "Sherlock, I need you to wake up." Sherlock woke with a little jolt and a startled gasp. "Are you okay?" John asked, his eyebrows pinched together in concern.

"I'm fine," Sherlock replied, his voice rough. "Just surprised at being woken up is all."

"Sorry, but I need your help. You need a shave, and I didn't want to chance waking you up with a razor to your face."

"Fine, yes, what do you need me to?"

"It's gonna be a bit awkward with you in bed. I'll need to prop you up a bit to slide a shampoo bowl under your head. After that it's just a matter of not getting soap in your eyes." John said, trying to keep things light under the weight of unanswered questions.

"Just tell me when." All of Sherlock's earlier humor had disappeared, and John wasn't sure why. He inflated the bowl, placed a towel underneath it, and positioned it beside Sherlock's pillow.

"Okay, I'll support you around your back with one arm, and you lean forward as much as you can without hurting yourself. I'll switch out the pillow for the bowl, and we'll lean you back down. Don't worry, I'll be careful."

"I'm not worried," Sherlock said coldly.

"Are you okay? Did you have a bad dream?"

"I'm fairly certain you know what my bad dreams look like, John. As I keep telling you, I'm fine. I'm just not entirely pleased with being bathed like a small child." His face fell. "This wasn't how I pictured things. When I thought about coming home, this wasn't how I pictured it." John's chest tightened. He hadn't thought about Sherlock wishing for home in the same way that he had wished for Sherlock.

"Just because you weren't yelling doesn't mean you didn't have a bad dream. Anyway, you aren't a small child, you're a very large child." John chuckled, but the joke didn't land the way he'd hoped. Sherlock just averted his gaze. John tilted his face back up. "Sherlock, it's okay to need help. It's okay for me to help you. You are my best friend." He released his friend's chin. "Now, let's do this." John snaked his left arm around his friend, waited for Sherlock's nod, and pulled up gently. Sherlock tucked his chin, his face pressing into John's chest and mumbled something. John quickly removed the pillow and slid the bowl into place. He used both arms to support and lower his friend. "What did you say?"

"You need a shower," Sherlock joked petulantly, and John laughed.

"Oi! I haven't exactly had time for a shower! Your brother kidnapped me from work for Christ's sake" John replied warmly, sliding his arms out from under Sherlock's back. "Be right back." John ran off to the bathroom, filling up two more bowls and the pitcher with bordering on hot water. "Ready?"

"Of course. You're not planning on mauling my face are you?" Sherlock smirked up at John.

"Have a little faith and relax," John said, and Sherlock did. He closed his eyes, and took as deep of a breath as he could manage. John used a washcloth to clean Sherlock's face, clearing it of old dirt and finding a few minor scrapes. Surprisingly, shaving another man wasn't much different than shaving himself. He was a bit nervous, but there was something oddly comforting about following the curves and edges of Sherlock's face with a razor. Sure, the ordeal was a little intimate and maybe a little embarrassing, but John was happy to do it. With Sherlock looking more like Sherlock, this whole ordeal was feeling less like a dream. His skin was warm beneath his fingertips. As he worked he could feel the soft exhale of his breath. He could see the twitch of his pulse in his neck. He finished, wiping away the remainder of the shaving cream. "There, you look more like yourself," John sighed.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked, decidedly not liking the tone in John's voice.

"Later. There is a list of things to do before we have that discussion."

"What's next on the list?"

"Your hair," John said, running his fingers through Sherlock's hair. The usual curls were weighed down with grease and knotted in places.

"Have at it, Doctor." He closed his eyes again, taking a deep breath. He could hear John swishing his fingers around in the water, testing the temperature. His fingers brushed through his hair over and over, wetting it thoroughly. He patiently combed through the knots with his fingers before adding the baby shampoo. "Any particular reason you're making me smell like an infant?"

"Well, I don't have your shampoo or mine, and I doubt you'd want to smell like Mycroft. Baby shampoo is gentle, and it smells nice. Besides, you don't get to complain about my choice in soap."

"To be fair, I didn't ask you to wash my hair," Sherlock pouted. Really, he was enjoying the feel of John's fingers kneading over his scalp. He hadn't realized it before he left, but he had gotten used to all of John's little touches. He just hummed in response and continued working the soap and then the water through his hair. He used a washcloth to absorb the excess water, and prepared to move Sherlock again.

"Just like before okay?" John wrapped his arm back around Sherlock and pulled, sliding the bowl to the side and leaning him back onto the towel. "One second." He took two trips to the bathroom, organizing all the supplies and tossing the used towels and washcloths into the hamper. He finished drying Sherlock's hair and replaced his pillow. "Now, as you so kindly pointed out, I am in need of a shower. Do you mind if I abandon you to take a shower?" John asked, rubbing his thumb gently along Sherlock's wrist.

"You could always move your things in here and take a shower in this bathroom. Then you wouldn't technically be abandoning me," Sherlock replied, secretly wanting John to stay close.

"Fair enough. As long as you don't mind sharing a dresser with me?" John joked.

"I'll survive," he joked back with sly grin. John went back to his room for the first time since Sherlock woke him. There was a folded cot with wheels in the corner of the room and a stack of clean bedding sitting on the armchair. A dufflebag he assumed was full of his stuff sat on the bed. He started with making the bed. He rolled the cot across the hallway and onto the side of Sherlock's bed with the bedside table, closest to the door. It was more like a trundle bed than a cot, and it sat even with Sherlock's. After laying it out, he grabbed the bedding which consisted of a loose and fitted sheet, two thick fuzzy blankets, and a fluffy pillow. He made the bed with military precision, and went back for his duffel. While unpacking, it was difficult not to think that under very very different circumstances this all would've been very domestic.

John glanced back at Sherlock on his way to the bathroom. He was breathing evenly, not the deep soft snore of sleep, but relaxed nonetheless. Comforted, John went to wash the events of the last day, the last two years really, from his body.

Sherlock calmed for the first time in two years, just listening to the familiar sounds of John settling in. When John came back, he went straight to bed and whispered, "Holler at me if you need anything. I'll be right here."

"Thank you, John." Sherlock knew tomorrow would be full of hard conversations, but for now he would enjoy the smell of John's shampoo and the sound of his soft breathing.


	5. Chapter 5

_Author's Note: So, I've never done this but I'm looking for cover art for this story. Please PM me if you're interested. This one's a little shorter but I really wanted this section of the story to stand by itself. Please read and review. When I started this, I hadn't anticipated how much those reviews would mean to me, so thank you to those who have._

 **Chapter 5**

John's bedside manner was fantastic, and Sherlock hated it. He was diligent and gentle and positive. He performed each task pertaining to Sherlock's health like there couldn't possibly be anything he'd rather be doing. Sherlock both relished in the attention and shrank away from it. He had missed John so deeply, more than he was willing to admit to himself. At the same time, so much at once was overwhelming. Why couldn't he have come home to Baker Street like he planned? Things would've been difficult at first, but they would've fallen back into their old lives so quickly. John would probably have given him a thorough and warranted ass kicking, Sherlock would've told him where he had been, and everything would've gone back to normal. Now they had this extra layer of awful to get through. It was pathetic how incapacitated he was. It was a miracle that John hadn't taken one look at his broken body and turned around.

John was reading aloud. He'd wanted to get a little TV set up, but until then he had a few reading books he snatched from the library. The novel was terribly boring, but the sound of John's voice was soothing, so he didn't complain. He didn't have any right to complain about anything. Anxiety had been building up in his chest since that morning. John was being patient, but he deserved to know the answers to his questions. Sherlock was terrified.

"John."

He stopped reading, looking over at Sherlock with a furrowed brow, concerned as always. "Yes, Sherlock? Everything okay?" John could've slapped himself. "I mean, I know you're not okay. I just mean-"

"I'm fine, John. You've been more than fair to me. I think you have some questions that you've been kind enough not to ask yet. I think it is time to rip off the bandaid, so to speak." His voice was steady, but internally he was shaking. He didn't doubt his actions. He would do it all again in a heartbeat. But he hurt John, and he was about to pull all that hurt to the surface.

"Are you sure you're up for this? I've waited this long. A few more days of waiting won't kill me." John was itching to ask. He didn't even know where to start, but he wouldn't press Sherlock before he was ready.

"I am sure. I would rather get it out of the way if that's okay with you." Sherlock closed his eyes, and John took a deep breath.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you jump, Sherlock?"

"Moriarty had threatened you. Well, you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. He had snipers on all three of you. If I failed to jump, failed to kill myself, then you would die. He, of course, had the power to call them off. As long as I had him, you were safe. Apparently he just wanted me dead or ruined, and he didn't care if he was alive to see it, so he blew his brains out. I didn't have him anymore, so I had to jump even if I was only faking."

"How did you do it?"

"Mycroft. We made extensive plans for every possible scenario. You remember the cyclist who hit you? He was supposed to. A number of Mycroft's people were involved. When I jumped, I hit a stunt bag concealed by the ambulance station. They rolled up the bag, dressed me in blood, and played the part of shocked bystanders. Even the people who took me away on the gurney were actors. I was able to temporarily stall my pulse with a small rubber ball under the armpit."

"If Mycroft and his cronies could know, then why couldn't I? Why did you make me go through that?" John's voice was raw and low.

"Moriarty's snipers had to be convinced I was really dead. For that to happen, you needed to be convinced I was dead. Until we could remove the snipers, you had to appear to grieve. I'm sorry John but you were never that good an actor, and I wasn't willing to bet your life on it."

"Then why not tell me after? It couldn't have taken you two years to track down three snipers. Why wait to come home? Why did you leave in the first place?"

"In court, I referred to Moriarty as a spider. Well, he was a spider with a wide web. Until I dismantled it, piece by piece, I could not be sure of our safety. You are right, I could've come to you after the snipers were caught, but there was no guarantee I would ever make it home. Why make you grieve twice? How was I supposed to know that you would continue to grieve for so long? I could've brought you with me, but it would've attracted the attention of Moriarty's men. I couldn't have them expecting me to come after them. They had to remain convinced of my death, just like you." Sherlock could feel the darkness of his recent memories crowding his brain, so he tried to focus on the room.

"Did it work?' John asked, steadily ignoring the tears threatening to fall down his face. "Is it over with?"

Sherlock quirked the side of his mouth up marginally and nodded. "I sustained my present injuries going after the last piece of the puzzle. I got sloppy, and he almost got away, but Mycroft intervened in the nick of time, as always. For the record, this-" he gestured to his sling with his chin, "was not how I planned to make my reappearance."

"Out of curiosity, how did you picture it? When you mapped it out in your brain, how did it play out?" John wasn't even looking at him anymore. He sat in his bed with his back against the wall, staring down at his hands. If he wanted to he could reach out and touch Sherlock. Part of him wanted very much to embrace his friend, to physically remove all the distance between them. The other part of him wanted to run out the door, down the stairs, and far away. Instead, he just sat there staring at his hands.

"Does it really matter?" Sherlock asked, more than a little embarrassed at the number of times he'd thought back to the fantasy in the last two years. When he woke up disoriented and afraid, he would picture his homecoming. When he was tired or cold or hungry, he would picture it. When they hurt him, he would picture it. It would never come to pass so why dig it up?

"Yes. Please, just humor me." John's voice was thick with tears, which were now falling in little drops on his hands and down the front of his shirt. Sherlock sighed in defeat.

"I'd come back to Baker Street-"

"But I don't live there anymore."

"What?"

"I moved out of 221B about a week after your funeral."

"Why?" Sherlock had always pictured John at home. Picturing him anywhere else felt wrong. "Where did you go?"

"221B wasn't 221B without Sherlock Holmes. I couldn't bring myself to move anything, but as long as everything looked the same, I kept expecting you to waltz through the door with a new case. I moved back into the bedsit. Don't worry though, Mrs. Hudson couldn't bring herself to move anything either. Well, except to throw out some rotten food and a couple of spoiled experiments. It felt rather like a tomb, until now... Sorry, keep going. I won't interrupt again."

"In my head, I would come back to Baker Street while you were at work. I would do all those chores you bothered me about before. I would sit in my chair and wait. I assumed you'd be furious, at least at first. I expected to take quite the beating, actually. But after all that, I'd fill you in on the last two years, and we would go back to normal. Cases and blogging and bad take away. In comparison to my time abroad, it seemed downright domestic. Of course I had to go and get myself injured and activate your doctor's instincts, so now you'll have all this bottled up anger that'll make you randomly lash out, and-"

"Sherlock, stop it." For some reason, the assumption that he would hurt Sherlock made him sick to his stomach, even if it might've been accurate had Sherlock not been obviously injured. "I might've been angry at you once upon a time, but I'm not now. Even if I had been, it would've been the shock of seeing you. I couldn't be mad at you now, not after what you've told me and what you've suffered to protect me and the others. You are here, safe and relatively whole. For now, I'm content with that." Sherlock was stunned. He had expected John to refuse to speak to him, to throttle him, to walk out on him. He hadn't expected forgiveness.

"So… We're good then?" he asked, his confusion evident in his voice.

"Yeah, Sherlock, we're good. I'm sure I'll have the odd question down the line, but we're good." John smiled and picked up his book again.


	6. Chapter 6

_Author's Note: Life has been hard. Really hard. But I'm still here and hopefully so are you._

 **Chapter 6**

Things had progressed slowly. So. Very. Slowly. It had been three weeks since he and John had reunited. Things were dreadfully quiet. Pros: his arms were no longer in slings, it looked like he would make a full recovery, and John didn't hate him. Cons: he still had limited mobility, he was still in a good deal of pain, and he was so terribly bored. John had started him on some mild physical therapy, but it was repetitive and tedious. He wouldn't disappoint him though. He wouldn't do anything even close to disappointing him ever again, even if it meant boredom, discomfort, and embarrassment.

Sherlock never claimed to be a modest man. He let himself be taken to Buckingham Palace in nothing but a sheet. It was different to be bathed by another person. It was different to be exposed because he had no other choice. It was different to be exposed to John. Every couple of days during the bed baths, Sherlock would just close his eyes and think of other things, cooperating when necessary. John was drawn to him for his cunning and strength, and he was ashamed of his current feebleness. Today would prove to be a mild improvement. No more bed baths. Really the bed baths had progressed to something more like chair baths, but it was only moderately better. He was itching to have a proper shower, or maybe even a normal bath.

They had just finished today's therapy, and John was looking over the healing scar on his left shoulder. His right shoulder would leave no permanent disfigurement. His injuries just needed time. Luckily, that time would soon be spent at Baker Street. Tomorrow, they were going home.

John looked up at him. "It should be fine to bathe properly. Well, more properly than before."

"Wait, wait, what do you mean more properly? Why not just properly?"

"Well, you'll still need help, Sherlock. I know you're out of the slings, but you don't have your range of motion back. I don't need you aggravating your injuries trying to wash your hair." That was one thing Sherlock hadn't minded about the bathing, John washing his hair. He hadn't had his hair washed by someone since he was a child, and it was deeply soothing to him. That comfort was currently being outweighed by his need for self-sufficiency.

"I'm not a child," Sherlock pouted, looking down and away.

"I never said you were. Come on, shower or bath?"

"Bath. It's easier isn't it?" he bitterly replied.

"Yeah, a bit. Try not to be so sour. Only a week more and you can bathe all on your own again," John said with a small smile. He hated to see his friend so uncomfortable, and he hated being the cause of that discomfort even more. At various times over the last couple of weeks, he questioned whether or not they should have hired a proper nurse. He started to the bathroom. "How hot do you want it?"

"The hotter the better. Please"

John looked up at the please, but didn't say anything. He just nodded and went to prep the bath. He had seen Sherlock pout and mope and whine. None of that was new. But he didn't think he had ever seen Sherlock quite so dejected. He started the faucet, and added a bit of the baby shampoo to the running water. Even just sitting on the couch and thinking, he radiated energy. John started to consider the possibility that Sherlock may be depressed. They were going home soon, and John hoped that would remedy the situation. "Sherlock! It's ready!" John yelled out, turning off the water. Unbeknownst to John, Sherlock flinched at the volume of his voice, and had to take a couple of steadying breaths before walking the few steps to the bathroom. Luckily, Sherlock had taken to wearing casual button downs and sweatpants to make changing easier. He didn't say anything to John as he began to unbutton his shirt. "So, I think you can do most everything on your own. Just holler at me, and I'll come do your back and wash your hair. Okay?" Sherlock nodded once. John left, but kept the door slightly ajar.

Alone for the first time since his arrival, Sherlock relaxed into the steaming water. The relief was palpable. He laughed at the absurd amount of bubbles. "Are you sure you don't think I'm a child?" he shouted. John poked his head in, concerned. He erupted into laughter at the sight of Sherlock's unruly curls hovering above a sea of bubbles. He had a point.

"I'm sorry. Baths and bubbles sort of run hand in hand to me." He was still chuckling. Sherlock wasn't helping; he was scooping up and blowing away the bubbles, some of them landing in his hair. "You look like you've never had a bubble bath before," John observed. Sherlock ignored him. "You haven't had one before, have you?"

"No," Sherlock answered indignantly.

"I should take a picture! This is a momentous occasion!" John elated, clapping his hands together.

"Either stop laughing or leave so I can enjoy this 'momentous occasion,'" Sherlock replied, sticking his tongue out.

"Fine, fine, I'm done." He didn't stop smiling though. How could he? His adult friend was having his first proper bubble bath.

"Stop thinking so loudly. You may not be laughing, but you're screaming amusement at me. You might as well wash my hair while you're here." John was surprised, but realized it was probably a good idea to get it out of the way. He sat on the edge of the tub, and squeezed the shampoo into his hand. Sherlock was elated when Mycroft retrieved all his usual toiletries. John was relieved as well. Sherlock had been obviously underfed when John arrived. His hair was shaggy, too. After a few dozen good meals, a haircut, and the use of his own shampoo, he was looking and smelling more like himself.

John started to lather the shampoo into his hair, carefully and thoroughly. Sherlock was genuinely relaxed, so he let himself enjoy it more than usual. He closed his eyes, this time out of pleasure and not the desire to disappear. John noticed he was leaning into his touch, but didn't say anything. Sherlock was never one for straightforward displays of affection, so John just gave a silent thanks. "Sherlock, I wanted to talk about moving back to 221B." Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. Was John rethinking moving back in with him? He just made a little humming noise, indicating that John should continue. "Well, I'll need to get my things from the bedsit, and-"

"Already done," Sherlock interrupted, relieved.

"What do you mean?" John asked, halting his hands in Sherlock's hair.

"Well, when you decided to stay, Mycroft had his men move it all back to Baker Street. I should also mention that because of this, Mrs. Hudson knows that we're moving back as well. As I understand it, Mycroft sat her down and broke the news of my resurrection. Pity too, I wanted to surprise her."

"That is invasive and presumptive and one hundred percent your brother," John laughed as he stood to grab the detachable shower head. He tested the temperature of the spray and leaned Sherlock back, holding the back of his neck.

As he was having the suds rinsed from his hair, Sherlock felt an unexplained heat spread over his body. He glanced down to see that his chest had gone all pink. He was blushing. Why was he blushing? He looked up at John to see if he had noticed. He hadn't. Sometimes he was grateful for John's lack of observation. It occurred to Sherlock just how intimate this was. Yes, John had washed his genitals, but that was part of routine hospital care. In the bathroom, with all the bubbles, being held like this, it felt almost… sensual? Sherlock was embarrassed to have even thought the word, and his chest went from pink to bright red. John was his friend, his best friend. He wasn't even interested in things like that. Even if he was, John was decidedly "not gay." He was just observing what the situation would look like from an outside perspective. That's all.

John turned the water off and returned Sherlock to his upright position. He ran his fingers through just a couple of times to shake some of the excess water out. John grabbed a washcloth and proceeded to wash Sherlock's back. Without realizing, John had started rubbing his thumb in soft circles on Sherlock's bicep, where he had grabbed for balance. Internally, Sherlock was preening. He had craved John's touch while he was away. He had underestimated just how much the two of them touched on a daily basis. Since coming back, there was no shortage of it.

"I think you've got it from here. I'll leave you be." The bubbles had started to disperse, and John was also noticing the intimacy of the situation. He didn't want to leave though. Sherlock was being playful and placid. It hadn't felt like this since before the Fall. One of them just so happened to be naked. He left.

Sherlock was grateful. He sank further into the bubbles and leisurely continued his bath. He underestimated how freeing it was to do something (mostly) on his own. He leaned his head on the edge of the tub and closed his eyes.

John thought about what it would mean to go back to Baker Street. He was oddly nervous. Like if he didn't tread lightly, it would all fall apart. He decided he might as well start packing what he could. Then he would make them dinner. He grabbed the duffle bag on loan from Mycroft. The posh bastard probably wouldn't mind if he took it home. He emptied his drawers, carefully folding everything except for his pajamas and his clothes set aside for tomorrow. He'd need to use most of his toiletries before tomorrow but there were a few things he could pack now. He rapped his knuckles against the door and poked his head around. His stomach dropped. Sherlock was completely submerged in the bathwater. There was no movement in the tub.

"Sherlock!" The name tore from John's throat. He ran to the bathtub, hooked his arms around Sherlock's waist, and pulled. The water had gone tepid, and Sherlock was definitely unconscious. He laid him unceremoniously on the ground and checked to see if he was breathing. He wasn't. Fuck, CPR was going to hurt his already damaged rib cage. He started compressions.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

He was desperately trying not to panic.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

Eleven.

Twelve.

Sherlock started to cough, water spilling from his mouth. The cough turned into a heave, and John drug the waste bin in front of him, knowing that he wouldn't make it to the toilet. John just knelt beside him, petting the back of his neck, and breathing heavily. When Sherlock's stomach seemed to settle, John grabbed the biggest, fluffiest towel they had and draped it around Sherlock's shoulders. He was dripping wet and shivering. John dropped his forehead to Sherlock's. "It's okay. You're okay. Just dry off. I'll get your clothes, and we'll get you warmed up." Sherlock didn't acknowledge him, but John went to get his clothes anyway. He picked out the thickest sweats he could find and a warm flannel button down with woolen socks for good measure. Sherlock hadn't moved. John dried his friend off, gently but quickly. He let John dress him. He let John lead him to his bed, layered with extra blankets.

Sherlock was still shivering. "Fuck it." John quickly changed into pajama pants and slid into Sherlock's bed. He drew his friend close, tucking Sherlock's head into his chest. He ran his hand up and down his back, trying to warm but also comfort Sherlock. "What happened?"

Sherlock sighed. "I must've fallen asleep."

"You can't be serious. So, that wasn't on purpose?"

Sherlock moved backwards, putting distance between them, and looked at him like he had spontaneously started doing the Macarena. "No, it wasn't on purpose. You think after trying so hard to keep you safe, to get back to you, I would leave you again? Of my own free will?" He was revealing more than he'd meant to. He was revealing more than he'd known there was to reveal. "I was feeling… calm for the first time since Moriarty threatened to blow your brains out, and I fell asleep."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." John brought Sherlock closer to him again. "It's just that drowning isn't a particularly pleasant sensation. It seems like you would wake up." He knew that their current position was more than what was considered okay between platonic friends, but he couldn't bring himself to give a single fuck, let alone separate himself from Sherlock.

"John," Sherlock was whispering now, "what exactly do you think they did to me while I was gone?"

They hadn't talked about this. John had specifically not asked about it. He wanted to wait until the wounds weren't so new, the memories so fresh. "I… I've seen the scars. You know I have." John dropped his voice to a whisper too. Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt, John helped him push it off of his shoulders, and he turned so that his bare back was facing John. He drew a sharp breath, and reached out. His fingertips brushed the edges of a few particularly angry scars. He had been whipped, that much was obvious. John cursed himself internally. As Sherlock's doctor he should've been seeing to a few of these, but he didn't want to cause him any unnecessary pain. Now that John was paying attention, it's obvious he should have. There were a few other scars whose cause wasn't so easily placed. There were even a few old ones that John recognized, that he had seen happen and heal in real time. A couple of them he had even dressed himself. "Oh, Sherlock." He turned back around to face John. There were far fewer marks on his chest. He started to pull at the hem of John's t-shirt. "Sherlock, what are you doing?" John's heart rate picked up, but he went with it, taking his shirt off so Sherlock wouldn't have to. He settled back down and Sherlock reached out, gently exploring the scar on John's shoulder.

"We match, John." Sherlock seemed to be in a sort of trance, tracing the outline of the mottled flesh.

"Yes, we do." But John wasn't just talking about the scars. Then he remembered why they were lying there chest to chest. "What does this have to do with what happened in the bathroom?"

"You've seen my injuries. You know I must've been tortured, most likely on several occasions. You're not that stupid. I trust that you're familiar with the practice of waterboarding."

John hugged Sherlock to him. He was mindful of his injuries, but he needed Sherlock in his arms. "So, you're saying that the sensation wasn't an unfamiliar one," John murmured sadly. Sherlock nodded.

"I was dreaming. Nightmares have not been uncommon for me since I left. There was no reason to think that because I was dreaming about being waterboarded that I was actually drowning."

"Sherlock, since you've been home, how common have those nightmares been?"

"Most nights. I haven't cried out since that first day though."

"You should have woken me," John insisted, running his fingers through Sherlock's damp hair.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, his eyes full of genuine curiosity. It broke John's heart in two.

"Because, if you're in distress, I'd like to comfort you." John kissed Sherlock's forehead. "Didn't your mother or father ever comfort you after a bad dream? Mycroft?"

Sherlock chuckled, seemingly unaffected by the small gesture. "Certainly not. I didn't have nightmares. At least, none that I can remember." If it had been anyone else, John would've called bullshit, but Sherlock didn't have any reason to lie to him. Especially not after what they'd just shared. He was still fiddling with John's scar. He seemed to be gearing up to say something. He opened his mouth, but closed it a second later.

"What is it?" John asked.

"Nothing."

"Yeah, sure. What is it? Just tell me."

"Well, as you can imagine, I'm not the biggest fan of nightmares. If you're not opposed, I think I'd like it if… No, nevermind. It's ridiculous." Sherlock had started blushing halfway through his rambling. John could feel the heat of it against his skin. It wasn't unpleasant.

"Sherlock, come out with it. What could be embarrassing at this point?" John tried to smile encouragingly at him.

"I'd like for you to sleep with me." Now it was John's turn to blush. "No! No! I don't mean like that. I mean literally sleeping in the same bed." Sherlock gestured at their intertwined bodies, and his voice dropped into a flustered murmur. "To try to fend off the nightmares." He paused, staring at John's dumbstruck face. John couldn't wrap his brain around it. Sherlock bloody Holmes was asking to be cuddled. "Forget it." Sherlock moved to get out of the bed.

John reached out, grabbing Sherlock around the waist and pressing him flush against him. "Of course I will, don't be ridiculous. I don't like the idea of being a flight of stairs away from you either, given your most recent near death experience." Sherlock wasn't quite sure how to respond. He let himself relax into John's embrace. He knew he would be safe with John. He was always safe with his blogger/doctor/soldier/flatmate/best friend. "Should we give it a go now? I'm knackered, and you should probably rest. When we wake up, I'll make some dinner, okay?" Sherlock just nodded.

As John was dozing off, he felt Sherlock breathe a soft "thank you" across his bare skin. He smiled drowsily at the bundle of consulting detective in his arms. He was so screwed, but that was an issue for a different day.

 _Author's Note: I hope you guys don't mind the time skip. Also, I don't know how realistic it is that someone falls asleep and almost drowns, but my mom was always scared of it happening to me. I went through a bath phase, and she always made me leave the door unlocked._


End file.
